Last Resort
by pingipenguin
Summary: Merlin can scarcely believe it didn't occur to him sooner. Set post S5, with the usual spoilers for the finale.


_**Standard Disclaimer: **__I don't own Merlin. All I've got is a pair of Pillow Pets called Doug and Clementine, and they totally love me._

**o~O~o**

It is the only route left open to him.

Merlin stands alone at the centre of the Isle of the Blessed, his hand mere inches from the golden rim of the Cup and tears unshed sparkling in his eyes. A year. It's been a year. A year of nightmares and pain, a year of regret and despair, a year of nights so dark he wonders if the morning will ever come. A year for him to sift through all their adventures, the good and the bad, and remember the first conquest of Camelot at the hands of the Witch Sisters. The Round Table. The Cup of Life.

_The Cup of Life_.

Merlin can scarcely believe it didn't occur to him sooner. The rule is ingrained in him like the lullaby his mother hummed to him as a child; _a life for a life_. He knows it isn't fair that Arthur should sleep while he yet lives, that he – a man who has lied and hidden, like the coward he is, in shadows his whole life – should yet breathe while the other – a man who strove to do what was right, to be open and honest and to treat everyone equally – has ventured prematurely into the void. The Balance of the World is off and Merlin can feel it; it pulls at his bones like a sickness, dragging him down into the murky depths of despair and confusion, and he knows this is the only way he can put it right.

A life for a life. For a life to be given, a life must be taken. And what better life to take than his?

He came prepared. A knife hangs from his belt, its edge wicked as the witch from whom he plundered it. It will serve its purpose well, he knows. Shaking hard, he draws the cold, damp air deep into his lungs and kneels at the altar upon which the Cup stands, filled already with water from Avalon which Merlin brought to it in a wineskin owned once by Arthur. He closes his eyes and lifts the blade, imagining the cold steel to gleam like firelight in the dark atmosphere. He will willingly die so that Albion may yet live; will happily trade places with Arthur so that his King, who holds so much potential, may yet walk this Earth.

He will happily embrace Death in the knowledge that all the pain, suffering and heartbreak will finally just _go away_.

But as he prepares to the drive the blade deep into his heart a hand closes suddenly around his wrist, startling him so much that his fingers slacken about the knife's hilt, allowing it to fall with a metallic clatter to the cobblestones below. "_No, Merlin_."

The voice is familiar as a song, as loved as tender life itself, and it fills Merlin with such strong emotions he is in danger of being swallowed by them. He whips around and hurls himself at Arthur, who is standing a little way to the side with a strange, oddly tender expression playing about his noble features. He catches the warlock in his strong arms and holds him close, patting his back as the slighter man sobs, tucking his head slightly so his cool chin rests on the nape of the warlock's neck. They remain locked that way for some time, two sides of the same coin, reunited at last.

"Arthur," Merlin finally breathes, his mortal breath ruffling the dead man's blonde locks. Arthur sniffs a grin and pulls away slightly, holding his once-servant at arm's length to examine him. A frown creases his brow.

"_When was the last time you ate something_?"

Merlin's own brow furrows, as he is honestly unable to remember. "I … I don't know." Then he laughs; at the mundane-ness of the issue, at Arthur's poorly veiled concern, at _life_ itself. Oh, how he has missed this. "What are you doing here, _sire_?" As in days gone by he puts as much contempt into the word as he can, trying to convey to the king how desperately he's been missed. Arthur smiles sadly.

"_Stopping you making the biggest mistake of your life_."

As one their eyes – king and warlock alike – stray to the knife, lying innocently beside the cold stone altar. Merlin lifts his gaze to Arthur's face. "Mistake? Arthur, surely you can't mean that."

The king shrugs. "_It was my time, Merlin_. _My life was foretold_."

"But that doesn't mean it's right."

"_You really are an idiot, aren't you_?" Arthur drawls, releasing Merlin in favour of folding his strong arms across his chest. He wears the same outfit as when he died, though the slit in his chainmail that marks where Mordred's immortal blade slipped into him has been repaired. Merlin wonders dully if it was Freya. "_I know that my time is not yet over. Stop trying to convince yourself that it is_."

"But …"

"_No buts_." Arthur claps him on the arm. "_I'm the king, and I'm telling you not to kill yourself on my behalf. I forbid it._"

"But, Arthur –"

"_Heed my words for once, Merlin, would you_?" The hand on his shoulder squeezes gently. "_Go back to Camelot. Gaius and the others need you._" His face softens slightly. "_My Guinevere needs you. Without you, she will not succeed in becoming the Once and Future Queen; will not succeed in raising Albion where I cannot. She needs you, Merlin. She _needs_ you._"

"But, you ..." the warlock stammers, reluctant to accept his friend's words as true "… Avalon …"

"_It'll all be waiting when you get back. Nothing will change, I promise_."

Merlin hesitates, his eyes straying to the abandoned blade once more. Arthur sighs exasperatedly. "_Stubborn oaf._"

"Prat."

"_Mine was better_." Arthur glances over his shoulder, his eyes sourcing something Merlin cannot see. "_I must go. Any longer and I'll be stuck staring at your ugly mug for the rest of eternity_."

"Arthur, no!" Merlin says sharply, seizing the Once and Future King's arm. But when Arthur lifts his gaze to meet Merlin's, the warlock finds he is suddenly lost for words. "I … there is still so much I wish to say."

Arthur smiles sadly as he begins to fade, his outline shivering and undulating on the tendrils of the magic-saturated wind. "_All will be said in good time, Merlin. All in good time_."

Then he is gone and Merlin stands alone at the centre of the Isle of the Blessed, his hand stretching towards something that is not there and tears unshed sparkling in his eyes.

**o~O~o**

_**A/N:**_

_God. Dammit. _

_Another randomly-inspired depressing post-S5 fic. Hope you all enjoy the feels. And just to clarify, Arthur's a spirit in this one. The reason he's visible is that they're on the Isle of the Blessed and I figured that, if the Cailleach can materialise from thin air, why not the Once and Future King, aka Arthur, aka Dollophead?_

_On a completely unrelated note, I just ordered in a Merlin 2013 calendar. I'm way more excited about it than I should be._

_And Happy New Year everyone! Hope your 2013 is as fulfilling as you want it to be!_


End file.
